


Here Comes Phire Brigade

by propheticfire



Series: The Adventures of Phire Brigade [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Phire Brigade, barely, exposition abounds, hints of cloneshipping, introduction piece, small bar fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 09:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12603448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propheticfire/pseuds/propheticfire
Summary: Special clone trooper squad Phire Brigade goes to 79's for a night out. They meet some old friends, and make some new enemies, and remember that they are––and will always be––brothers.





	Here Comes Phire Brigade

**Author's Note:**

> This is an introduction piece for my special squad of clone OCs (also featuring more OCs, oops). Phire Brigade is based off of action figures that I have, and I decided it was finally time to start writing about them. There's so much more to them than I could fit in this piece, but this is as good of a start as any. I hope you enjoy them.

“Hey guys, look! It’s Phire Brigade!”

“Oh hey!”

“Hello again!”

“Brothers!  
  
Heads turn toward the commotion. The table of 327th are waving madly toward the entrance of 79’s and grinning. As the door closes, a last _whoosh_ of pleasantly cool Coruscant night air gusts in over Peale’s shaved head. He glances behind him, checking that his three squadmates are present and accounted for. Cinch still has his helmet on––unsurprising––and Nimbus is eyeing the rail at the bar, where someone’s shirt seems to have been the bet in a rousing game of sabacc. Mousetrap is…

Mousetrap is already at the table with the 327th, being swept up into a bear hug by one of the heavy gunners. Gala, was it? Others are jovially thumping him on the back.

“Good to see you again, kid!” someone calls out.

“You guys too!” Mousetrap exclaims. He twists around to find Peale. “Everybody else is here too, see?”

Peale takes that as his cue to amble over, Cinch following. Nimbus has veered off toward the bar already. When he reaches the table, a couple of guys scramble out of their chairs, with exclamations of “Here, sit here!” and “Join in! I’ll go find more.” Peale takes one of the proffered chairs and the guy next to him––Uyo––throws his arm around Peale’s shoulder.

“Man it really is good to see you again,” he says. “Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. Still can’t thank you enough.”

Peale smiles. “Happy to help. Glad we could. Word of advice though?” He turns and looks Uyo dead in the eyes. “Next time you might wanna fire _at_ the droids, and not above them into the guys trying to save your ass.”

That gets a laugh out of the table, and Uyo gives him a playful shove. “Hey, how was I supposed to know it was you guys in the bushes up there?”

There’s more commotion as the guys who gave up their seats come back, dragging a few more chairs up to the table. Mousetrap and Cinch squeeze in next to Peale. Somebody’s arm sneaks in and sets drinks down in front of them.

The gunner who had hugged Mousetrap––yeah, Gala––picks up a drink of his own and holds it aloft. The table hushes.

“I didn’t know if we’d ever see you again, but I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re beyond glad we’re here to see anything at all. And we owe that to you.” He tilts his drink forward a bit. “To Phire Brigade.”

“To Phire Brigade!” the table answers, raising drinks and fists in salute.

Mousetrap grabs the glass in front of him and takes an eager swig. It comes sputtering back out as he grimaces, coughing and trying to catch a breath. That earns another laugh from the table. Gala thumps him on the back a few times.

“Slow down, kid,” he says. Then, a little quieter: “Don’t grow up too fast.”

Mousetrap just wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and grins.

“You really shouldn’t be drinking,” Cinch says suddenly.

Mousetrap rolls his eye. “Okay, _Mom_.”

Cinch stiffens. Barely noticeable, but it’s there.

“You don’t even know what a mom is,” Peale says, catching Mousetrap’s eye. His tone is warm, but he gives Mousetrap a pointed look.

Mousetrap casts his eyes down briefly, acknowledging Peale’s unspoken warning to ease off Cinch. But he fires back: “Yeah, but I know what a _dad_ is, and his name is spelled P-E-A––"

He doesn’t even finish before the table is roaring with laughter again.

 

* * *

 

“So, how did you guys come together again?”

It’s later in the evening, and the table of 327th has reached a comfortable buzz. A couple rounds of sabacc are under their belts, along with traded stories of what they and Phire Brigade have gotten up to since they last saw each other. Cinch has finally decided to remove his helmet, though Peale notes he’s resting his fingertips lightly against his forehead, shielding much of the scarring that covers the left side of his face. Nimbus had joined the group too, looking flushed but content.

“Sorry,” the trooper who asked the question continues, “I wasn’t in the company yet when you saved these guys. I’ve heard the stories though. You’ve got some…senator on retainer or something? Who bankrolls special missions?”

Peale chuckles. “That’s the spirit of it anyway.”

“We don’t actually know who she is,” Mousetrap pipes up. “She goes by ‘Phire’, but we’ve never seen her.”

“She’s a friend of Shaak Ti, we know that,” Peale continues. “Technically, General Ti is our commanding officer, but Phire’s managed to pull some strings somehow, and she finds troopers who have nowhere left to go but back to Kamino to be turned into clone cutlets, and she…saves us, I suppose.”

The trooper looks them over. “And how many of you are there?”

“There’s just the four of us,” Mousetrap replies. “So far. We’re practically a commando squad!”

“Yeah, how you figure?”

“Well, Peale’s the sniper, Nimbus does demo, and Cinch is getting pretty good with the tech stuff.”

“So what are you?”

“I’m the leader of course!”

The trooper snorts into his drink. Peale reaches behind Cinch to smack Mousetrap lightly on the shoulder. “I _heard_ that, kid!”

After the snickers die down, the trooper focuses on Mousetrap. “What about you? Did you graduate early or something? How old _are_ you?”

Mousetrap lowers his head a little in embarrassment. “I’m eight. I was…doing something stupid, trying to prank the Kaminoans, and I fell, and I shattered my ankle. They were gonna put me down, but General Ti found out and she sent me off to live with Peale. Peale was the first one that Phire helped.”

The trooper looks expectantly at Peale, who taps his ear. “Hearing loss. Almost completely gone. Kaminoans didn’t want to spend the creds to fix up a non-command clone with new ears. Hell of a lip reader, though, so watch your mouth. Literally.” He smirks. “Originally from the Wolfpack.”

“I’m the angry one,” Nimbus says quickly, before the other trooper can ask. There’s a purse to his lips as though he’s tasted something unpleasant, and a tone in his voice that suggests ‘the angry one’ is not a label he chose for himself. “Didn’t play well with others. Guess that’s grounds for termination.”

“Nimbus was in Green Company, in the 41st,” Mousetrap says. “He lost almost everyone.”

The other trooper stares at Nimbus, who flexes the fingers of his right hand for a moment, before pulling off his glove to reveal his durasteel prosthesis. “Got this too,” he grunts, “but I suppose I was still worth something when they gave it to me.”

“You’re worth something now,” Cinch says quietly. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

The trooper turns to Cinch. “So what’s your story? I mean I see the––" He gestures to Cinch’s face. Cinch grimaces and ducks his head further behind his hand.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” the trooper says quickly. “I didn’t mean–– I mean it’s kind of––"

“ _Cinch_ here,” says a new voice, “got his face twisted off trying to pull somebody out of a burning gunship. And no, he doesn’t have an eye under all those scars.”

Phire Brigade turn from the table, to face the new speaker. He’s armored up in 501st blue, one hand on his hip as he looks down at Cinch. Another guy in 501st markings trails behind him.

“Leeds,” Cinch says. His tone is level, but Peale notices the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Cinch gets to his feet. Peale follows.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Leeds continues, “after they carted you away from the 501st. But I see you made it. Found yourself a new squad and everything. And you’re off saving the galaxy again.”

“They sure helped us out!” Uyo pipes up from his chair. He raises his empty glass in a wobbly toast. Peale pats his arm back down and regards Leeds with an even expression.

“We do what we can,” he says.

“We hear about different missions,” Mousetrap chimes in, “and we pick the ones where we think we can help the most.”

“Is that so?” Leeds flicks his gaze to Mousetrap briefly, eyebrows quirking up slightly as he takes in the cadet.

“Yeah,” Cinch replies, eye locked on Leeds. “That’s what we do.”

Leeds cocks his head.

“Yeah? Where were you on Umbara?”

Everyone freezes. The whole table of 327th goes quiet. That’s a word that you don’t say, even if you weren’t there. _Especially_ if you weren’t there.

Leeds steps closer. “Where were you on Umbara, _Cinch_? When your brothers were being slaughtered? Where were you then?”

“Leeds, nobody knew what was happening on Umbara,” his buddy says suddenly. “They couldn’t have known.”

But Leeds won’t let it go.

“How many were there before that, huh? How many brothers died because you couldn’t stay at your posts? Couldn’t do your job? Got carted off to live the good life while we got thrown into hell. How many brothers died because you were always too damn worried about your _fucking face_ ––"

It happens in an instant. A feral growl rips through the air, and Leeds is on the ground, trapped beneath Nimbus’ fists as he smashes them again and again into Leeds’ nose. Blood spatters on the durasteel. Leeds brings his arms up to shield himself, but Nimbus batters through his defenses. He grunts with the force of each swing, answered in kind by strained gasps from Leeds. Then––

_Crack!_

Leeds screeches in pain. Bodies rush in, pulling Nimbus off of Leeds, who curls on his side, holding his nose. Nimbus struggles against Gala’s arms holding him back.

“You wanna talk _face_? Next time you got a problem with my brother’s _face_ you say it to _my_ face or you’ll end up with a _different_ face! _Hut’uun.”_ He spits on the floor next to Leeds’ head.

Peale steps in front of him, placing a steady hand on Nimbus’ chest. “Easy,” he says. “Easy Nimbus. Fight’s over. You made your point.” Nimbus looks over Peale’s shoulder at Leeds on the ground, and his lip curls up, but he takes a deep breath. He leans into Peale’s hand a bit.

“That’s it, that’s it, ground. Feel the ground beneath you. Feel my hand on you. Breathe into it.”

Nimbus closes his eyes and breathes again, slower.

“Good job. Keep going. Ground.”

A sound makes Peale turn around, to where Leeds is picking himself up off the floor. He still holds his nose, blood trickling out from between his fingers. His mouth is covered, but the gleam from the smirk he’s hiding shows in his eyes. Peale drops his hand from Nimbus’ chest and walks toward him, arms out slightly, palms forward. Non-threatening. “Let it go,” he says.

Leeds spits out a laugh. “You didn’t hear me, did you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Peale says, “fight’s over.”

“I _said_ , you their babysitter now?”

Peale advances until he’s nose to battered nose with the trooper. “Fight’s over,” he says again, softly. Then like lightning, his hand is on Leeds’ throat. He squeezes, just enough pressure to make Leeds gag on the blood draining from his nose. “I don’t need to hear you to know what you have to say isn’t worth anything,” he practically whispers. His voice is ice. “And if you _ever_ disrespect another brother for their wounds again I will put you in the medcenter myself. And from what I hear the 501st’s medics don’t take kindly to bullying.”

He holds Leeds’ gaze just long enough feel the tension spike, then he drops his hand and steps away. Leeds’ buddy rushes in, concern written on his face, but Leeds growls and jerks back. He stalks off across the bar, his buddy following.

Peale turns back toward the table. Half of the 327th are out of their seats, ready to jump in if necessary. Peale shakes his head slightly and quirks a reassuring smile, and they relax. Gala has released his hold on Nimbus, but is running steady hands over his shoulders. From his chair, Mousetrap grips Cinch’s hand, who follows Leeds’ path across the bar with a wary eye.

“Cinch,” Peale says, “you okay?”

Cinch swallows. “I…I think so.”

“I take it he’s on the list of people to avoid?”

Cinch nods. “Probably best.”

Peale lowers his gaze to Mousetrap. “You okay kid?”

Mousetrap nods too. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Nimbus?”

“I’ll _be_ okay,” Nimbus grunts. But he’s already leaning further into Gala’s hands as Gala massages the tension out of his neck, and his arms are hanging loosely at his sides.

Peale considers for a moment. “Well boys, should we stay or should we go?”

Cinch looks across the bar again. “I think…I’d like to go.”

“Yeah,” Mousetrap says, “we probably should.”

Nimbus gives a disgruntled groan, but Gala leans in to whisper something in his ear, and Nimbus huffs out an, “Okay.”

“Wait wait wait!” Uyo picks up his empty glass again and launches to his feet, swaying slightly. “Anothertoast, t’ th’ guardian angels of the GAR! The GARdian angels!”

That gets pained moans from the table, but glasses and fists are again raised in salute.

“We’ve always got your back, brothers,” Gala says, “because you had ours. Thank you. To Phire Brigade.”

“To Phire Brigade!”

Peale looks over his three squadmates, as Cinch puts his helmet back on and re-grabs Mousetrap’s hand, as Nimbus eases his glove back over his durasteel prosthesis. Indeed.

“To Phire Brigade.”


End file.
